


Talk Is Cheap [Part 1]

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [3]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward Flirting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Romance, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two conversations. One with each of the brothers Hawke, during one of which Fenris makes the first move. Asks and answers the question of what would happen if Hawke is not the flirtatious type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk Is Cheap [Part 1]

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Big thank you to Sassywolf23 for R &Ring. For a video edit of Fenris' recruitment mission, click [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=12J-xskzqeg). For a video edit of the Book of Shartan scene and the discussion that follows, click [here](https://youtu.be/LqrJdKJzMBc?list=PLLICJ24u9j6RpcDM1V4RpsQtQDRphjHjP). To read Part 2, go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3952201).

 

It was in a roadside tavern, at the end of the first day’s travel to the Bone Pitt mines, that the younger of the brothers joined him in his corner on the far side of the common room. He hadn’t solicited the human’s company, but insisting that he take his leave seemed excessively boorish, not to mention more effort than it was worth. The younger Hawke was midway through a second pitcher of the dark, pungent liquid the publican had peddled as ale, though, judging by the smell, Fenris reckoned it would fare better as accelerant than a beverage.

The mages – the elder brother and the tall, emaciated newcomer, ‘Anders’ – remained entrenched at the bar, the froth long since dissipated from the untouched tankards perched on the counter beside them. It was a waste of good coin in Fenris’ opinion, but better that than a trio of hung-over humans on the road the next day. As it stood, one was bound to be trying enough.

Carter? Casper? No, _Carver_ , sat down with an exaggerated sigh, gaze trailing Fenris’ to the pair. His features, flushed with drink, hardened to stone as he huffed his contempt. Many things seemed to garner that response from his fellow swordsman, though if Fenris wasn’t mistaken, the youth’s current scowl bore an edge that cut deeper than the blustering rebellion typically aimed at his kin.

“Don’ know why Wreath insists on dragging that whiny bastard along,” Carver grumbled, confirming at least part of Fenris’ suspicions. “If it’s arse he’s after, he c’n get better at the Rose for a lot less shit.” Finding crude humour in the words, he snorted into his tankard before taking another deep swig of the contents.

Fenris straightened in his creaky chair, disturbed, though not by the joke. “Your brother...beds _men?”_ he queried, unable to strip the incredulity from his tone.

It hadn’t yet been a month since the elder’s blunt, “ _This is going to cost you,_ ” brought their paths into alignment. Spoken in the Kirkwall Alienage with the scent of fresh death on the air and the blood of a full regiment of Imperial slave hunters dripping from his armour. The human’s bearing had been wary, calculating, that of one accustomed to assessing danger and applying a price. The edges, however, were worn; dulled by what even Fenris’ jaded scrutiny could discern as a look of understanding.

Under cover of night and Vhenadahl, all he’d seen was the reddened sword of a bounty hunter, and the face of a man who knew what it was to live in the shadow of fear, calling no place ‘home’ lest he find his back to a wall.

Never, even if he lived to see the ages turn, would Fenris have expected to find such ground held in common with a _mage._

In the tavern, Carver’s glower turned on him. “You got an issue, you keep it to yourself, hear me?” Growled in a tone thick with the same warning he issued on the night they’d met. “ _…problem with my brother, you have a problem with_ me _._ ”

“S’long as everyone’s willing,” Carver went on, “it’s a man’s own business where he sheathes his sword. Not that the great bastion of the Amell-Hawkes ever does, mind. Reckon he’d be a lot more tolerable if he did. Just, y’know, not with—” He cast a nod at the bar, with much less subtlety than he seemed to realise.

The object of his derision was engrossed in a discussion of his own. One that required a great deal of animated gesturing, met by the odd quirked brow and wry half-smirk from the elder Hawke. Fenris stared, not seeing anything untoward about the interaction. Well, other than that two mages were openly conspiring, but nothing to hint at carnal interest between them.

The conversation lulled as the blonde risked a sip of his drink. He instantly broke into a coughing fit, rousing a chuckle from the other.

Anders recovered swiftly enough and it was then that Hawke spoke, eyes heavy-lidded, both corners of his lips tilting up. The blonde blinked, then laughed. As their banter resumed, Anders leaned forward, fingers alighting on the naked skin of Hawke’s forearm, unguarded by his gauntlets for the moment. There was a hint of friction, ever so slightly protracted withdrawal. Just enough to turn a pat on the arm into a fleeting caress.

Not obvious. Not explicitly brazen.

Nothing that would draw attention.

That was how the game was played in Tevinter. And in the Free Marches as well, it would seem.

“ _As long as everyone’s willing..._ ”

Fenris frowned. _Aut_ _vincere, aut mori:_ ‘either conquer, or die.’

In Minrathous, where such maxims were a way of life and the warping of intent by magic and blood offered the most expedient means to that end, such a declaration would account for very little. The consent of a puppet, whether controlled by a spell or simple fear, was ‘consent’ nonetheless. Watching the pair across the room, the elf’s first impulse was to believe the worst: that neither would hesitate to twist reluctance into ardour if it suited their whims.

No sooner had the thought crystallised, than a niggle of doubt began to chip away at the edges. Hawke employed no servants and the scars he bore seemed honest enough, typical of a man who fought with a blade and worked with his hands. More to the point, he’d felt Hawke’s casting. Even with his markings active, there’d been no demonic taint to burn along the lyrium, no parasitic pull on his blood. As for Anders…

Dormant or not, his magic scraped at Fenris’ awareness like a knife across the skin. The essence of his power was similar to Hawke’s, but condensed. _Trapped_. Like something caged.

It was eerie, and Fenris would concede, if only to himself, that the peculiarity of it frightened him. Even so, whatever its origin, the tang of death was absent from his person, the leaching emptiness of blood magic blessedly lacking from his spells.

Moreover, Hawke’s aid to the wretched had not ended with Fenris’ plight. Even facing the forfeit of payment and the making of an enemy he could ill afford, the apostate hadn’t hidden his outrage on an elven father’s behalf when guards refused to bring a magistrate’s child-stealing son to justice for fear of the bureaucrat’s wrath. Splattered with the innards of a giant arachnid, Hawke had sheathed his sword and softened his tone, even stooped to a knee – all in a bid to appear less imposing to an elvish girl, yet he’d shown no mercy to the human who’d harmed her.

When the self-confessed child-killer begged for death, Fenris had volunteered to carry out his wish, recalling the ways of the Imperium where magisters did not dirty their hands with such things. Hawke hadn’t so much as acknowledged the offer, judging the man a monster before slitting his throat where he stood.

Here was a human, who wielded the power to crush bone with a _thought_. And yet, he’d used a blade.

There was no display of supremacy in the killing of Kelder Vannard, no unsubtle intimidation for those in attendance. Only righteous anger at the perversion of what passed for justice in Thedas, and a concerted effort to remedy what little he could.

Across the tavern, it was Hawke’s turn to speak. True to form, he did so with more restraint than the blonde had shown. The flirtation was gone from his manner, replaced by a nostalgia that Fenris recognised from Hawke’s visits to the mansion he’d claimed, after sharing a bottle or two of his master—of _Danarius’_ wine.

His scowl deepened and he averted his eyes. He’d received the man, a blighted _Fade leech_ , in what was effectively his home. He’d imbibed liquor with him, had stood beside him half-nude as they washed after battles, and not _once_ had Hawke’s gaze so much as lingered—A stray thought cut across his mind then, drawing his regard back to the nearest brother.

“And what of you?” he ventured, flippantly as he knew how. If the youth’s appearance at his table was a prelude to anything more than awkward conversation and a steadying hand when the flammable ‘ale’ went to his head, Fenris would prefer to have it clarified sooner rather than later.

“What _about_ me?” Carver mumbled, speaking into his tankard.

“Do you share your brother’s...choice of scabbard?” he tried, cringing inwardly at the metaphor. Carver’s eyes boggled and concerns over eloquence vanished, his warrior’s reflexes serving him in good stead as a mouthful of cheap alcohol sprayed across the table.

“Eulgh, no way!” the human sputtered, dragging the back of a hand across his mouth. “Wreath likes what _he_ likes, and I like what _I_ like, and I like _women._ We clear?” he insisted, underscoring the words with two blunt fingers pointed at Fenris.

“Understood,” he affirmed, adding a deferential nod for emphasis. His question had been answered. The last thing he wished was to endure a drunken account of every notch (whether real or invented) on the young fighter’s bedpost in a mulish attempt to prove just how little the brothers Hawke had in common on this score. Among others. In fact, were it not that their faces and forms had clearly been cast from a common mould, Fenris would’ve been hard pressed to believe that there was anything but friction between them. That, and the strange brand of loyalty whereby none were permitted to disparage the elder, save for the younger himself.

Silence settled between them as Carver continued to pickle his organs, leaving Fenris wishing for a tankard of his own if only for the diversion that pretending to drink would provide. His companion’s emphatic denial of erotic intent had garnered a measure of relief at least. The boy was far from unsightly, if one were inclined to cast such a glance, but he was just that: _a boy_.

In his nineteenth year, his brother had said.

Fenris was ignorant of the number that marked the length of his own life, not least because his memories only spanned about seven. He remembered bearing the features of an adolescent, one far younger than the human across from him, when he awakened in Danarius’ care; knew that three had passed since he turned his back on his master and fled, trading the gilded noose of enslavement for the unfettered, unending freefall of a fugitive’s life. He also knew the barebones of the Hawkes’ escape from the Blight; had listened to the elder’s account of a sister, another mage no less, who hadn’t survived the journey.

It was not that he believed the younger’s existence to be blithe and carefree, but he couldn’t imagine _ever_ being as callow as that. It was a trait that spoke of being sheltered. Even after crawling through the Void, and Fenris couldn’t help but feel a tiny stab of envy.

Slanting his gaze toward the bar, he studied the mages through the fall of his hair. Their expressions had sobered, suggesting a sombre turn in the conversation, and he found himself more than mildly curious as to what was being discussed. A month might not be the longest time by which to measure an acquaintance, but it was sufficient to feel the shift in the group’s dynamics since the blonde’s sudden debut. The intensity Hawke carried about him wasn’t new, but there was a strain to his demeanour that hadn’t been there before.

Considering how everyone quieted when the subject came up, Fenris suspected it had something to with the score of dead templars found in the Chantry the previous week, but…it made no sense. From what he’d witnessed of Hawke’s dealings with the clergy, the Chantry was the _one_ institution in Thedas that commanded a degree of reverence from him. Not to mention:

“… _This is going to cost you._ ”

If the mage intended to stir a clash with holy warriors on consecrated ground, it stood to reason that he would enlist all the blades at his disposal. Fenris was indebted to him, and not just for his aid against the hunters. It was Hawke’s endorsement that kept the city guard from evicting and arresting him; the threat of Hawke’s retribution that kept Kirkwall’s (other) criminals from his door. He would have no grounds to refuse should the man demand his support and yet, the first word he’d heard of the supposed ‘ _bloodbath’_ was that of the criers.

Perhaps he could ask that dwarf with the crossbow – Varric – when they returned to Kirkwall. The hirsute archer seemed to keep abreast of everything that occurred in the City of Chains and if Hawke was planning some ill-fated standoff against the powers-that-be, Fenris might be forced to reconsider his allegiance.

Then again, it was not as though he had a plethora of alternatives to choose from.

“… _This is going to cost you._ ”

The stipulation hadn’t seemed particularly daunting when issued. ‘ _After all,_ ’ he’d told himself, ‘ _nothing this one might ask of you could possibly hold a candle to what Danarius will inflict._ ’

Overcome with relief at the prospect of aid, it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how two humans, a dwarf and a dog had made short work of Imperial guards, several of whom would’ve certainly had magic, nor did he think to question when mention of a Tevinter magister didn’t elicit so much as a flinch.

They entered the manor, and it was as they stepped into the atrium that he knew it for the snare that it was. The smell of brimstone hit him first, acrid and smothering. The heat came next. He’d stood and stared, numb with something beyond terror as the floor began to melt and a beast of fire and coal rose up from the bubbling flagstone. It roared, a sound like the rumbling shriek of an execution pyre, as twin embers of purest malevolence settled on him. It lunged.

…and missed as the air itself wrapped around his body and pulled.

He was dragged off his feet, landing hard in the relative shelter of the alcove between the wall and the stairs, alongside the boy and the dwarf and the dog. The Fade beast thundered again and he looked up, eyes wide and watering from the unnatural swelter, expecting to die. Instead, he watched as spines of ice, thick as tree limbs, shot from the flooring, the ceiling, the walls, impaling the demon from every side. As one melted, another rose, quenching the creature’s anamorphous form wherever they pierced, leaving it blackened, brittle and crumbling.

Fade energies swirled in a veritable squall through the room and in the midst of it all, with long black hair whipping about his face in the maelstrom of light and wind and ice, was the sword-carrying, armour-clad bounty hunter from the Alienage clearing.

“... _going to cost you._ ”

The man was a mage.

“ _I will find a way to repay you, I swear it._ ”

And Fenris owed him his life.

At last, the demon’s form shattered with a groaning keen and the tempest calmed, throwing the room into an almost shocking silence. The fiend was gone, but so was Danarius – if he’d been there at all.

Fenris had come to Kirkwall seeking the past he’d lost: his name and those of his family, ensconced in a piece of dwarven crystal, fashioned into an amulet for his master to wear. Three years of running. Always a half step ahead. And like a scavenger starved beyond sense, addled by the scent of an obvious lure, he’d stepped squarely into a trap.

“ _Is anyone injured?_ ” Hawke demanded as he trotted over, stooping to fuss over his brother first. The mercenary – no, the _mage_ – had stood his ground against a demon. And his victory had barely broken a sweat.

A trap indeed. In more ways than one.

 “ _Holy shit, Hawke,”_ the dwarf began, voice low in his awe. “ _I knew you were a—but you_ really _are—_ ”

As if the word itself was something to fear and suddenly, Fenris couldn’t breathe. “ _I…need some air._ ”

He’d meant to run. From the house, from Kirkwall altogether, but he’d only gone as far as the terrace when his feet refused to move. He couldn’t outpace Danarius’ reach forever and he was tired – so very _tired_ of the chase. What was more, he’d been deluded to think that he had a glimmer of a chance at besting his master if it came down to a duel. The magister’s power was simply too great, and he knew his little pet only too well.

He heard the door groan open a moment before the others appeared. Hawke had looked at him askance, as though surprised to find him there, and the thought that he was so transparent that a stranger could peer into the craven core of him jolted him into posturing.

“ _…What manner of mage are you? What is it that you seek?”_

“ _You have an issue with mages?_ ” asked warily, watchfully, as if a single elf could possibly hope to threaten a man who’d bested a demon by summoning a blizzard.

“ _I have an issue with_ magic, _and those who are careless with it_.”

Hawke’s arms crossed, wide shoulders squared. “ _I’m just trying to get by_.”

“ _You are skilled. I’ll give you that much._ ” It was certainly true. “ _But I have seen many crimes done in the name of survival_.”

That seemed to cross some unknown threshold as the dog began to growl and the brother chipped in with his warning. The dwarf had huffed, looking down his nose at him (stature notwithstanding) clearly judging him a thankless rake for his rudeness.

Feeling chastened, he’d offered a kneejerk apology and it was then, with the memory of searing heat upon his face as the demon attacked, that he’d made the offer that brought him to a wobbly chair in a seedy inn, half-listening as a human whelp prattled on about the hardships of life “ _in his brother’s shadow_ ” and how much of a “ _tit_ ” their uncle was.

“… _going to cost you._ ”

Fenris breathed a sigh. Hawke’s way of collecting was, well, not what he’d expected.

He’d offered his blade and particular skills in battle to compensate for the human’s assistance and Hawke had accepted. He still cut Fenris in on a share the takings, which meant that he’d essentially been granted employment. Upon announcing his intent to lodge at the manor, Hawke had gone back in to see about discharging any summoning runes that remained, but not before questioning his sanity for wanting to sleep in a place where the Veil had been breached.

A mage who believed dealings with demons to be madness. It was almost as incongruous as one calmly accepting orders from a magically-untalented she-elf and yet, Fenris had borne witness as Hawke did exactly that. He’d watched too as the man was mocked for a ‘dog lord’ and a ‘mashman’ and a ‘half-bred savage’ without so much  as a rude gesture in retaliation, but when Fenris was addressed as a ‘rabbit’ in that Hanged-pub where the dwarf lived, it was Hawke who cowed an apology out of the offender, snarling a warning about the repercussions of disrespecting ‘ _his friends_.’

He watched now as the dark haired mage tossed his head back on a laugh, presumably at something the blonde had said. Hawke’s unrestrained mirth was a rare sight indeed, and Fenris found himself studying the man in a light he’d refused to acknowledge before.

Elves routinely claimed to find humans repulsive, their men especially so. While Fenris had seen specimens of both genders that were less than inspiring, he had to concede that the elder of the Hawkes exuded a certain draw to which he was not as immune as he might have liked. He’d told himself that it was merely a sense of appreciation for the first person in years to stand with him against his pursuers – indeed, one of few in his memory to treat him simply as a man, as opposed to an asset, or a threat, or a ‘knife-ear _._ ’ And yes, thanks might well have a part to play, but it was _not_ gratitude that compelled him to notice the girth of a curled bicep as Hawke hefted a load of firewood into the camp, and it certainly wasn’t a sense of indebtedness that had his eyes trailing the slope of the man’s spine as he walked a step behind him, lingering on the bunch and flex of Hawke’s ample rear in those worn leather britches he favoured.

Fenris would rather _not_ have noticed such things. He didn’t want his head filled with thoughts of the human’s dark hair and light eyes, his full lips and strong hands as he drifted off to sleep, nor of the smoky-ozone scent that clung to his skin. Like fire and rain. Wild and fierce and free...and dangerous. So very, very _dangerous_.

Above all, he didn’t want to trust, didn’t dare to, but there was no denying that Thedas had become a less daunting place since he’d crossed paths with the Fereldan. Brutish as the man appeared, decked in worn leather and battered chainmail, greatsword at his back and the Fade itself pooled in his hands, there was something almost… _comforting_ beneath that stormy surface. Unchanging, like deep water. Stalwart as stone.

Hawke had made no carnal overtures toward him, but perhaps, when they were once again alone in his master's old manse, it wouldn’t hurt to test the waters; send a ripple across that still façade and make known that the option was… _available_ , should Hawke ever think to amend the terms of their arrangement. Fenris had done worse in Danarius’ service. Much worse. And if he had to follow through, at least with Hawke, his compliance wouldn’t hinge entirely on fear.

Decision made, his focus drifted back to his own table and the younger brother’s increasingly slurred lamentation. “…it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s a flaming _duck_. ‘m I right?"

Fenris nodded, more for the sake of propriety than agreement.

“Right!” the youth enthused, seemingly unaware of the elf's wandering thoughts. “So, then _Wreath_ says, fact he’s a healer means it _can’t_ be a demon. ‘Cause healing’s a spirit-gift, see? And the spirits would withdraw it if he was a proper Abomination. So I ask him...” Carver swayed slightly as he leaned closer. “I say, ‘Brother, if he’s got something from the Fade in him that makes his eyes glow, and his voice change, and lets him shoot bolts of magic out his arse that even templars can’t block, you _really_  think the Order’s gonna split hairs over wha’ else he c’n do?’ And then, _Wreath_ says—”

“Wait!” Fenris hissed, having found the breath to speak along with a full sentence worth of words that weren’t curses in Tevene. “ _What_ did you just say?! _”_

 

* * *

 

 “…What about Aveline?” Fenris hedged, scowling at the label of the wine bottle in his hand. He couldn’t read it, but he could make out the year, 9:19 with a picture of a dragon beside it. Hawke had said it was Orlaisian, which meant it was probably very expensive.

He set the bottle to his lips and swallowed twice before handing it to his guest. Hawke was leaving for the Deep Roads upon the morrow. He’d declared Fenris’ debt repaid with the conclusion of his agreement with the Tethras brothers, thus freeing the elf to depart from Kirkwall without breaking faith.

Hawke was doing his level best to change that, however.

“She’ll be here,” the mage replied, taking the proffered wine, “but she’s accustomed to being the hunter, not the prey. I don’t know if she’ll know what to look for.”

The man had asked Fenris to safeguard his mother and by extension, his uncle, while he and his brother were off traipsing through some ancient, subterranean, plague maze that may or may not contain treasure. And Hawke had come bearing gifts. A book of all things, compelling Fenris to reveal his inability to read, followed by a brief debate on whether or not thanks were in order.

It _was_.

Danarius had given him things on occasion. Fenris recalled a tunic that “ _showed off_ ” his markings, preserving just enough of his modesty to uphold the myth that magisters didn’t actually lie with their slaves. There’d been a fur-lined collar at some point, embellished with precious stones that supposedly “ _matched his eyes_ ,” and later, a stronger, sharper blade to wield as he escorted his master into Qunari lands. The one thing all the items held in common was that each, in some way or another, had served the magister’s interests far better than his own.

Hawke’s gift, on the other hand, was a very old tomb. Ancient even. The mage had explained that it chronicled the life of an elven slave before the advent of Andraste and that it bore all the hallmarks of being penned by Shartan himself. Fenris’ illiteracy meant that he had to take the human at his word, but he had no cause to suspect him of lying.

The book was undoubtedly valuable.

Fenris had watched Hawke scrape to buy his way into the dwarf siblings’ Deep Roads madness and spending that much coin, to _enter_ a place that most people would pay to _avoid_ , well, it said something about the mage’s level of desperation.

Hawke claimed that he’d happened upon the book months earlier, while still in that she-elf’s employ. There must’ve been a point at which he was tempted to sell it. Yet, he’d resisted thus far, only to present it to Fenris. Yes, it was meant as a bribe of sorts, and yes, Hawke had enemies (notably templars) that were beyond the city guards’ capacity to repel, but this…

It  was a gift that’d been chosen for _Fenris’_ benefit, based on considerations of what mattered to _him_. Moreover, relinquishing the tomb was not without a cost to Hawke. The man had recently invested fifty sovereigns (more than a years’ wages for a dockworker in Kirkwall, and the sum of his family’s wealth) with a couple of dwarves he barely knew. A gamble if ever Fenris had seen one. The book was likely all that remained of the human’s nest egg, and yet, he was willing to part with it in exchange for Fenris’ word that he would stand in Hawke’s stead to protect that which the man valued more highly than gold.

To be afforded such trust was… _humbling_. In fact, it was the sheer magnitude of the gesture that left him reluctant. Functioning as Danarius’ conditioned pet was one thing; being relied upon as an ally – as _an equal_ , and of a _mage_ no less – was quite another.

He watched as Hawke tilted the bottle and took a swig; watched as he rolled the liquid in his mouth, savouring the flavours before swallowing. Hawke held the bottle out and Fenris made to take it, but the mage held on, urging him to look up and meet his eyes. “If more of those Tevinter thugs turn up,” Hawke said, wearing the no nonsense expression he donned when he spoke about remaining free of the Circle and protecting his kin, “fight only as much as you must to get away. Once you do, head to the Keep. I’ve spoken to Aveline. She’ll make sure the guards have your back in this. Day or night.”

That the man would think to make arrangements on _his_ behalf jarred something in Fenris. His first instinct was to protest, to deny needing _anyone’s_ help, but Hawke was one of a handful of people who would know that for the lie which it was.

The wine was released and Fenris took it, but he didn’t bring it to his lips. “I’ve wanted to leave my past behind me,” he admitted, addressing the bottle, “but it won’t stay there.” He sighed and looked to Hawke, “Tell me, have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?” The question had niggled at him since learning of the man’s origins, but he hadn’t been bold enough to pose it before.

Hawke seemed slightly taken aback by the query, as if it dug a little too deep for his liking, but he answered nonetheless. “I grew up in Ferelden,” he said, gaze turning fond as he reached down to pat the Mabari dozing at his feet. “It will _always_ be my home.”

Touching as the response was, it was not particularly conclusive. “The Blight _is_ over,” Fenris pointed out. “You could rebuild what you’ve lost. Do you truly not want to?”

A pensive scowl crossed Hawke’s visage, one that spoke of remembered pain and lingering grief. “I’ve started a life _here_ ,” he said, almost terse as a note of defensiveness rang through his tone.

Fenris bristled.

Danarius had taken much from him – dignity, honour, self-respect – but it was the black void that gaped where memories of his childhood should’ve been that made the task of reclaiming anything else seem all but insurmountable at times. Velún was a small hamlet on the outskirts of Orlais and one of many places that would afford a few days’ rest to an eleven fugitive, provided he kept his head bowed and didn’t tarry too long. While there, Fenris had learned an adage: dans l'incertitude, trouver la possibilité infinite. ‘ _In uncertainty, find infinite possibility_.’

It was meant in a positive light. Fenris understood that; had even made it something of a mantra when the sheer unpredictability of a runaway’s existence seemed more than he could bear. Yet, it was that same infinity that spanned before him – as if peering through a kaleidoscope, filled with its thousands of tiny, shattered fragments, constantly shifting, never quite slotting into place – that left him dazed and ready to stumble whenever he tried to speculate on his past. It was the _one_ part of himself that he could never regain; not without Danarius’ input, and Fenris was secure in the bitter certainty that there was nothing he could hope to inflict that would impel the magister to divulge such facts. To do so, would be to acknowledge a slave’s existence apart from his input and Danarius would sooner die than make allowance for that.

Hawke would face no such impediments if he wished to retrace his steps, and the idea that the mage would squander the chance, as though it meant _nothing_ —

In his envy, it seemed unconscionable to the elf. “And that’s it?” Fenris needled, “You would leave it behind _so_ easily?”

“I lost _my sister_ to the Blight,” Hawke gritted out. The flash of anger never lit in his eyes, though. Instead, his gaze seemed to darken, growing weary about the edges, and Fenris was abruptly reminded that some journeys were just too convoluted to repeat.

“And now she no longer matters to you? I…apologise,” he said. Haltingly, but sincere. “Your life is your own, it simply…sounds very familiar.”

Hawke nodded, taking the wine from him. He drank deep and fast before handing it back. Without stopping to savour, Fenris couldn’t help but note.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire and the working of his own throat as he took a swig himself.

“Do _you_ intend to keep living here?” Hawke asked when Fenris’ mouth was free to respond.

“I haven’t decided,” he said, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. “For now, it’s as good as any other place,” and it wasn’t even a lie; he simply neglected to add how heavily his decision would hinge on Hawke’s. For he knew that whatever was  agreed upon now, if the mage’s jaunt through the Deep Roads went as planned, Hawke would have little cause to remain saddled with a Tevinter runaway, least of all one who disagreed with his politics on principle.

Fenris shrugged as he relinquished the wine. “I would return to Seheron if I could, but there is no life for me there.”

“Is that where you’re from?” Hawke asked. He’d started to raise the bottle for a drink, but lowered it at the mention of the island.

“So I’ve been told,” Fenris said, mentally berating himself for the slip.

“Were you very young when you left, then?”

“Perhaps.”

Hawke frowned at this, but he pressed no further and Fenris was glad. His amnesia was arguably the greatest of his weaknesses (many though there were) and the thought of confessing it aloud made him feel naked, as if stripped of his very skin – more exposed than acknowledging his enslavement or his ignorance of the written word even, and his tunic was thin enough beneath Hawke’s scrutiny as it was.

“You could track your former master down, I assume,” Hawke changed the subject, cutting to the heart of the matter. Or at least, to the reason Fenris had cited for not immediately agreeing to guard the man’s kin in his stead: the need to stay abreast of Danarius’ dealings; of the magister’s comings and goings. It sounded better, he thought. Affording his flight a veneer of method and strategy. As though he and Danarius were opponents on opposite ends of chessboard, rather than he, a rodent dashing frantically through a transparent circuit and his master, a feline that waited untiringly for his quarry’s strength to deplete.

“I imagine he has returned to Minrathous,” Fenris surmised, failing to mention his doubt as to whether the magister had ever left the Imperium’s Capitol to begin with, “though, I dare not go near the city while he is alive. No. It is better to wait for him to leave his fortress. Fight from a fortified position.”

He hesitated.

The admission was difficult to make, yet no more so than all but begging for Hawke’s help in the Alienage had been, and that had turned out well enough. As if hefting a weight, Fenris raised his gaze to the human’s and spoke the truth, “I would not expect your help when that day comes, but I would not turn it aside.”

Hawke, did _not_ hesitate, “Don’t leave, then. Stay.”

The blunt surety surprised Fenris. Pleasantly even. A smile tugged at his lips as a curious warmth that had naught to do with the wine bloomed at his centre. “I could see myself staying,” he conceded, “for the right reasons.”

That coaxed a smile from Hawke as well. Not the usual wry half-smirk, or the callous sneer he donned when engaging an opponent who’d pushed too far. _This_ , was a smile that softened his features, calming the storm in his eyes.

For a moment, Hawke looked the part of the young man he was, rather than an overwrought apostate trying to balance the weight of Thedas upon his broad shoulders, and the image was enough to cause Fenris’ breath to stall in his chest.

Recalling the younger brother’s revelation of weeks earlier, he leaned slightly forward, chin tilted just so, adopting a posture that a man of certain leanings could not mistake. “I…should thank you again for your help against the Hunters,” he heard himself saying, meeting the ever-intense blue stare through his lashes. Hawke’s brows rose inquiringly at the change in demeanour and Fenris tried not to think about what he intended to do. He knew from experience that he would only lose his nerve if he did. “Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner.”

Confusion knitted Hawke’s brows for a beat, but his eyes quickly widened as he caught on to the mild innuendo.

Doubt rose in Fenris, whispering that he’d made a fool of himself; that Hawke didn’t favour elves in the same way he did men of his own kind. He was on the verge of retracting the implied invitation and blaming the wine, when the mage’s mouth ticked up at a corner, a knowing gleam igniting in his stare. ‘ _Not offended, then_ ,’ Fenris thought to himself, equal parts nervous and relieved.

Hawke leaned forward, mimicking his posture. “Talk, is cheap,” he enunciated clearly, voice low. Intimate, but decisive.

As was Hawke’s way, several meanings threaded through the economy of words. There was a petition, ‘ _if you mean it, be the help I need right now_ ;’ an appeal, ‘ _if you mean it, be_ here _when return;_ ’ and a challenge as well, ‘ _I’m flattered, but if you mean it, you have some convincing to do_.’

“Is that so?” Fenris quipped, smiling despite the oblique prod at his motives.

There was a sense of something being sealed between them and even though he couldn’t say what it was, he felt inexplicably heartened by it. He rose from his chair and stood before Hawke. When he thought back on this moment, he wanted to recall being up on his feet, as opposed to down on his knees. “Perhaps I’ll practice my flattery for your next visit?” he dared a challenge of his own. “With any luck I’ll become better at it.”

Logic asserted that if Hawke’s Deep Roads excursion went as planned, he was unlikely to have need of a magister’s damaged plaything upon his return.

However, as the mage grinned, raising the wine in a toast to the words, a small voice, long dormant and speaking from further back than Fenris’ memories spanned, said that there was hope to be found here.

And that perhaps, he was _not_ a fool to believe.

**Author's Note:**

>  **End A/N:** This ficcy was loosely inspired by [this](http://aimo.deviantart.com/art/DA2-Most-Wicked-Grace-201543626) comic strip by the amazingly talented Aimo. Very mildly NSFW, enough to make Fenris blush, so totally worth checking out ;)


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